


Rache

by randomisedmongoose



Series: Armata Strigoi [2]
Category: Powerwolf (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Christian Imagery, Crimean War, Gen, Heresy, Vampires, Werewolves, like actual heresy against most of Christianity but particularly the Eastern Orthodox Church, or maybe blasphemy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25036774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomisedmongoose/pseuds/randomisedmongoose
Summary: With their lives irrevocably changed, the boys set out on the only path that make sense: revenge.
Series: Armata Strigoi [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813237
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	1. Hunger and loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> A follow-up to “Theirs but to do and die”. I just couldn’t leave the story like that, I’m too much a sucker for a good revenge story. If it wasn’t clear before, both this story and the previous one is very inspired by “Armata Strigoi” in particular, because it contains my number one favourite line in their entire discography. I’ve tried not to crib lyrics too much but I buried it in here. Also, my deep apologies to anyone who actually speaks Romanian – I’m sure the translation-bot totally butchered most of it. This is also an exercise in posting chapters one by one – let’s see if I manage not to go back and fiddle around too much!

Underneath a massive windthrow, its broken, twisting roots supporting a thick canopy of moss, fungus and fallen leaves, there was a burrow. At the moment it was occupied by three huge, sleeping wolves. The two smaller lay nestled around the larger, all three supporting the two men hiding from the last rays of the setting sun. The need for hiding in the daytime had quickly become apparent after Attila had sustained a bad burn the first day. After that, the vampires hid in the bright hours. The werewolves seemed not to be bothered by the light, but had taken to sleep in the daytime to accommodate their friends. In the night, they had prowled the forests around the old church, testing out their new powers.

Attila was deep in thought, flipping the beads of his rosary between his fingers one by one. Falk was absentmindedly threading his fingers through Matthew’s ruff as he watched the priest. A gnawing in his belly made him wince briefly, but he pushed it away, determined not to think about what it implied. Instead, he focused on Attila. The priest hadn’t changed much in his outward appearance. Paler, yes, with red eyes and shadows that clung to him like cobwebs; but still as strong and broad, still that smile, playful and genuine. Not at the moment, though. Right now, Attila’s expression was one of grim determination. Falk nudged him gently.

“What’s on your mind?”

Attila looked up, the smile lighting up his features for a short moment before disappearing again. Falk felt a pang in his heart that had nothing to do with the pain in his stomach. The priest tucked the rosary away and rubbed his eyes.

“I’m thinking about our way forward. I want revenge on that… thing. The one that turned us.”

Falk’s hand closed reflexively, pulling hard on Matthew’s fur. “I agree with that.” Matthew stirred, and Falk quickly let go and smoothed the rumpled fur. “Sorry.”

Matthew yawned and stretched, showing his massive fangs. “’s okay. Sun gone down?”

“Nearly,” Falk replied. “We were talking about what to do. About getting even.” 

Matthew nodded and put his nose in Charles’s ear with a low _whuf_. His brother woke with a surprised snort. Matthew licked him across the nose, and Charles growled and pushed him away.

“Stop it, you little shit. It’s bad enough to be woken up without your horrible breath.”

Matthew laughed, stretched again and turned more human before nudging Roel with his foot. As the drummer grunted and yawned, Matthew turned to the vampires again.

“I’m all for going after the bastards. We need a good plan, though. They’re powerful, and we’re still learning what we can do – it’s been what, a few days?”

The last rays of the sun disappeared behind the trees, and the pack emerged from under the roots, stretching and scratching. Falk felt another stab in his midsection as he climbed out, and grimaced. Charles looked at him in concern, but he forced a smile.

“I’m fine – don’t worry.”

Charles looked unconvinced, but didn’t press the matter. As Roel sniffed around to make sure the den was unthreatened, the brothers rummaged through what little possessions they had managed to save from the church – both rifles, a knife, water bottles, a compass, one of the backpacks.

Matthew picked up his rifle and looked along the barrel. “If we’re going to attack, we need more ammunition. Charles and I are nearly out. Maybe we could sneak up on of the caches in the night-“

“What do you need ammo for,” Roel interrupted, staring at him.

Matthew laughed. “For shooting things? I know you weren’t really in an offensive position, but”-

“I know what bullets are for, Matt,” Roel interrupted again, rolling his eyes. “Why do _you_ need them? You’re a werewolf.”

“Well, I- uh.” He slowly lowered the rifle and stared at it, then at his hand, with its long, sharp claws. 

“Matt?”

“Yeah. Of course. I just... I'm just used to the rifle, I guess.”

Charles put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. “Hey. It’s okay. This… it’s new to all of us. We’re still accommodating.” He turned to the drummer. “Step off a bit, yeah? You’re taking this better than any of us, Roel. Give us time.”

The drummer smiled and rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t know if I am, to be honest, taking it well, that is. I just… I’m used to taking things in stride, you know? Just letting things happen, as long as they’re tolerable.” He made a vague gesture. “We would’ve been dead if this hadn’t happened. I just. I don’t want to die. I never did. This is… I don’t care if this is good or bad. I don’t _want_ to care. I’m alive.”

Falk rubbed his stomach and grimaced. “I’m still on the fence about if this is better than being dead.”

Attila put an arm around him. “We’ll manage. We just need some time to adjust, that’s all. And a bit of revenge would be favourite. It’d cheer my spirits no end.”

“We still need to find some way to find them, though,” Falk replied with shaky smile.

Charles rubbed his chin. “Well, every night we’ve been looking around the church and miles beyond, and there’s not a lot of tracks. They’re good at hiding. But there are smells.” He nodded to his brother and Roel. “We can track the werewolves, but the vampires don’t smell at all. Not even you do.” He sniffed in the direction of Falk and Attila. “It’s weird, to be honest. It’s like seeing a whole other world, full of colours, but all of a sudden there’s a... hole. Just nothing. It’s like the natural worlds sort of… bends around you.”

Attila looked crestfallen. “I see. Could you track that… nothing, then?”

“No, I mean… I could see it, or feel it, when we’re close, I guess. But there’s nothing to track until then.”

Attila sighed. “Fair enough. So if they’ve split up, we won’t be able to find the great one. We could be going on a wild goose chase.”

They moved silently through the forest as they were talking in low voices, going nowhere at all just to have something to do while planning. The still air was heavy with the scent of pine needles and damp earth. They could hear bird calls off in the distance, and the chirping of bats above, diving for insects. Suddenly, Falk doubled over, stumbled and fell face down on the ground.

“Falk! What’s wrong, lad?” Attila rushed to his side and turned him over. The cantor was groaning and clutching his stomach. His face was ash grey, the red eyes fading to a sickly pinkish-white.

“I’m so hungry…”

Roel bent down and felt Falk’s forehead. It was icy cold and clammy. He frowned.

“When was the last time you two ate or drank?”

Attila found it hard to think. “I guess… in the church? Before we turned, at least.”

“That was four days ago! Why haven’t you said anything?” Matthew stared at Falk as the realisation hit him. “We’ve been hunting, but you haven’t… You never had any. Why didn’t you…?”

Attila sighed. “I just… didn’t want to think about it. There’s been so much happening… and he never said anything.”

Charles helped Falk up, draping his arm over his shoulder. “Attila, what… um, do you guys eat?” He looked apprehensive, like he already knew the answer.

The priest sighed. “Blood,” he replied. “Things like us… they drink blood. I’ve been… I’ve been ignoring it. I’m holding up okay, but I think they took more from Falk when they turned us. There were so many drinking from him... We need to get something to eat, soon.”

“Something like-“ Charles began, when Roel held up a hand, his ears alert and listening.

“Something’s coming. Hide!”

Swearing under his breath, Charles took Falk under one arm and swung up into the branches like a huge ape. The rest clambered up after him, keeping as quiet as possible. After a short while, they heard a rustling sound. A large wolf was sniffing along their trail, limping as she made her way through the underbrush. She was dirty and scrawny, with bald, scaly patches of unfurred skin here and there. She stopped under the tree, looking confused as the trail ended abruptly. She milled around, scratching at the ground and sniffing in the wind until she finally thought to look up. As she did, Roel, who had been poised to spring, jumped down, knocked her ass-over-teakettle and sent her flying among the rotten leaves. She whirled back up surprisingly fast, but he was on her again, teeth at her throat, trying to deflect the flailing claws. Matt and Charles jumped down as well, flanking Roel. The mangy she-wolf yipped in terror.

“I yield!”

Charles and Matthew looked at each other, confused. Roel froze, teeth around her throat. She spoke again, words garbled by the wolf mouth but still understandable.

“I yield, fuckdamn! Look, you three, me one, yes? Not want dead, yield, yield!“

Roel released his grip and stepped back, allowing her to get up. She rolled over on her stomach and stretched. In a series of painful cracks and pops, her body changed, leaving a werewolf woman, still dirty and scrawny, marred by multiple scars and some kind of skin condition. One ear was missing along with some of the scalp and hair on one side, leaving a hole in the middle of a mess of scar tissue. But when she grinned, her teeth were sharp and white.

“You _neamţ_ , German, yes? Soldier men? Hear big pack talk, eat in church. Me is _singur_ , _proscris_ , yes? Not theirs, not in pack!”

“What?” Attila climbed down from the tree and stepped forward. “ _Ești un singur? Fără loialitate?”_

Her eyes lit up as she recognised the language. “Yes, yes! _Nu sunt prieten cu marele rău!”_ She shook her head emphatically, dislodging a twig from her matted hair.

Attila frowned. “She says she’s not a friend to the great evil one. I think we know who that is,” he added as he helped Falk down on the ground, where he collapsed against the trunk of the tree.

Roel looked at her suspiciously. “Why were you following us?”

The woman got up and shook herself off. “I follow big pack. They leave scraps, is good eat, yes? No hunt, me.” She nodded to indicate her left leg. Roel noted that it sat at a weird angle – it must have broken and mended wrong at some point. He shuddered to think what could have done an injury large enough to stick with the fast-healing werewolves. She scratched one of her bald patches and continued.

“Big pack, they feed on soldiers. In night, they bite – one, two, many. Is dead fast. Some in forest, leave for me eat. But they drive off me, say no be here, get fuck off. I smell you, think you hunt too? Is hungry, me.”

“They bite...?” Attila grabbed the fur on her neck, making her cringe. “Are they making vampires of all of them?!”

She struggled to get out of his grip. “No make strigoi, not them! Is food only!”

Attila released her. “Why did they make us, then?”

“You, is holy!” She pointed at his crucifix. “Is good make strigoi then. Is power – _transformarea ta sfătuiește cântarul către rău_.”

“Our turning tips the scales to evil?”

The werewolf nodded. “Priest, monk – eat for make dark power. _Cel mare rău_ want that.” She sat back on her haunches. “Me, no care. Just want food.”

Matthew glanced at Charles and Roel. “Us too? We were far from holy even in life, friend.”

She shook her head and laughed. “Us is _vrykolakas_ , is no same. We bite, is moon, is wolf. If strong! If no strong, is meat. Us strong, fuckdamn.” Her hairy face shone with a demented sort of pride as she thumped a fist on her chest.

Charles gave her a calculating stare. “So you know where they are – the ones that turned us? The great one, and the werewolves?”

“Yes, yes. Follow them far, me. They like soldier war. Many meat!”

Charles looked at Attila and arched an eyebrow. “Can you tell us about them? How many there are, what they can do?”

She gave him a sly look. “Yeees… if meat? And, eeeh… what word, _dacă mă vei proteja_? From big pack?”

Attila shrugged at Charles and nodded. “Yes, we’ll protect you. And make sure you’re fed. What’s your name?”

She growled and looked away. “Is _proscris_ only. No name.”

Something stirred in the back of Matthew’s mind, an ancient memory that had nothing to do with his human brain but everything with the old knowledge granted to him by the transformation. A loner, an outcast, packless. Yes, he knew what that meant. Her shame and pride would prevent her from having a name.

“We’ll call you Lonely, then.”

She grinned and picked at her teeth with a long claw. “You have meat?”

“Not right now.” Roel glanced at Falk. “But we’ll have to eat something soon.”

“Run with you, me?”

“For now. If you show us where the pack went, and tell us about them.”

“Is deal.” She spit in her hairy palm and held it out to Attila. He managed to make his dry mouth produce a little reddish spittle, and shook her paw.


	2. Needs and anger

While the others made small talk with their new acquaintance, Charles pulled Matthew aside and nodded towards Lonely.

“Hey, about little miss windfall over there… I’d like sneak up on the army before we decide anything. Listen in a bit, make sure she’s not lying to us. I dunno, we might hear something about what they’re planning as well, movements, any news...”

Matthew nodded. “Good idea. I’ll join you. Roel can stay and guard the others... I’m not sure that Falk can protect himself if something comes.“ He glanced back towards the pale vampire, slumped against a tree again, Attila hovering over him like a concerned mother bat. Charles followed his gaze and hummed agreement.

After a few words to the others, the brothers set out. The meeting with Lonely hadn’t happened very far from the encampment, and within half an hour they were near enough to smell the smoke from the fires. They passed several sentries walking among the trees – despite their training they were noisy as elephants compared to the werewolves, who moved as quiet as mist. At the edge of the encampment they happened upon a small campsite with some men conversing and eating – stew and stale bread, judging by the smell. The Greywolves hunkered down in some bushes to listen. A tall man in the red and gold of a sapper was doing most of the talking, arguing emphatically about something with the other two as he occasionally stirred the pot.

“… telling you, it’s not the bleeding fever!” The sapper shook his head. “It’s something else. Strong men, hale and in good spirits, falling ill and dying from one day to the next? The fever doesn’t work like that, let me tell you. I’ve spent enough time running ordonnances between sick tents to tell one disease from another.”

The other, a weathered man with the lived-in look of a veteran, looked unconvinced. “Aye? What is it then?”

The third, an infantryman barely out of his teens with an unruly mop of black hair and masses of pockmarks on his cheeks, piped up. “I think it’s an act of God. This whole campaign is cursed! So many dead from disease rather than fighting, then the unnatural attacks – like the Russians knew our every movement? And then the priest disappeared, like the forest swallowed him…” He shuddered and looked out into the night. Charles crouched down lower in the bushes.

The older man laughed and wolfed down some stew. “Trust me, greenling – there ent nothing unnatural ‘bout the Russians.” He swallowed and punctuated his words with his spoon. “That’s just spies, and soldiers what dun’t know how to keep their mouth shut. And the disease? Sure, there’s a good sight more than usual, maybe, but every war has its pestilence, and the bleeding fever is the one that graces us.”

The young man poked sullenly at the dying embers. “The priest, then? Explain that!”

The man spat into the fire, making it hiss and sputter. “All priests are cowards. Probably ran off at the first sight of battle and got et by wolves. Nah, there ent nothing unusual about that. These new deaths tho…” He nodded at the sapper. “Yer right there, it’s something else. I’ve heard tales of this land, boys. There’s dark things living here.”

The youngest shook his head and shuddered. “I can’t wait to be out of here.”

The sapper scoffed. “Well, we’re moving out tomorrow, so you’ll get your wish.”

“Heh. Can’t say I think what’s waiting for us at the Black Sea will be better than what’s out there, lad,“ the veteran said. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my day, and I can tell you that the worst is definitely human. Just wait ‘til you see real battle, boy, not like that little skirmish we had.”

The boy paled. “It gets worse?”

“Don’t scare the boy, Josua,” the sapper replied. He turned to the boy. “Just keep close to your elders, lad, and don’t be stupid, and you’ll have a good chance of surviving.”

The old man spit into the fire again, but kept silent. Charles nudged Matthew gently and started creeping back towards the others. When they were well away from the fire and past the sentries they broke into a run until they reached the group.

Matthew changed back with a grimace of pain and nodded to Lonely. “She was right. There’s definitely something picking the soldiers off. They seem really spooked by the whole thing, including our disappearance. They’ll be moving out tomorrow. I’ll bet the undead bastards will be following along as far as they can, if they have nice steady source of food.”

Charles nodded. “If we follow the army, then-“

“Who goes there?” A lantern flickered in the darkness.

“Shit…! Hide!”

The others scrambled to shrink back into the dark as a soldier crashed through the underbrush, no regard for stealth. Charles managed to revert fully to human form right before the man reached him. In the flickering light of the lantern he could see the bearer. Charles recognised him as a fellow jäger – Georg, his name was, a good enough man. They’d shared a few drinks and a lot of tales; the man was a real talker, and a bigger gossip than a fishwife. He held the lantern up high and squinted at Charles.

“Charles...? The Devil are you doing here, man? We thought you perished in the attack! There… I mean, there was a service and everything. Where did you go?” He paused his rapid-fire speech, eyes narrowing. “Did you... did you defect?”

“No! No, we didn't, we... we just-“ Charles fumbled for a believable lie as he cast furtive glances out into the night, hoping the others were keeping well out of sight. He swore under his breath. How could they have missed him?

“We? Did your brother survive as well? Why didn’t you come back, then? There were others we didn’t find, either. A drummer. The priest and the cantor. Did they survive as well?” The man looked more suspicious by the second.

“It’s… complicated, Georg, please keep your voice down-“

“If you didn't defect, where have you been?”

Charles felt the panic rising. The jäger slowly reached for the horn by his side.

“Charles, what did you do?” His narrowed eyed suddenly widened in disgust. “You sold us out, didn't you? That attack, was that your doing?”

Charles sputtered in surprise. “What?! No! Shit, Georg, we didn’t… don't do this. We didn't sell you out! Can you calm down, man, let’s talk about this…” Charles took a step forward and waved his hands. The jäger took a step back in response, suspicion now etched in every line on his face.

“Then where have you been, Charles? Why won't you tell me?”

“I can't!” Charles hissed.

The jäger frowned, grasped the horn and raised it to his lips. In fear and frustration, Charles lunged forward and pushed him to the ground, knocking the horn away into the bushes. The jäger struggled to get the bigger man off him, and the blooming panic made Charles’s body take the only logical way out. He could feel his fingers lengthening into claws, teeth growing sharp.

“Just stay down, Georg,” he growled. “Just… stay… _down!_ ”

“Get off me, you traitor!”

The jäger gave Charles a wild haymaker across the chin, which only served to make the werewolf angrier. He grabbed the front of Georg’s shirt and slammed the smaller man down on the ground. As the two struggled, the rest of the group threw caution to the wind and ran up to separate the two. Roel grabbed Charles from behind and tried to pull him off as Falk, tired and confused, desperately tried to silence Georg.

“Please, calm down, be quiet, please…”

The jäger pushed Falk away with a snarl and pulled a knife out. With a clumsy swing, he plunged it into Charles’s side. The werewolf grunted in pain and recoiled; the man got up and raised the knife again, but this time Charles was ready and attacked first, wresting himself from Roel’s hands. Claws fully out, snout lengthening, he buried his fangs in the jäger’s arm and ripped the knife from his grasp. Georg screamed and cradled his mangled limb. The blood pumped steadily from the deep gashes, and he tried frantically to stem the flow as he backed away in panic. He looked around at the other men now crowded around him.

“What- what are you? Damned devils...!” He crossed himself with his good hand. Crimson was dripping down his mauled arm and pooling in the dirt, black in the moonlight.

Falk blinked as he lay on the ground where he’d been pushed. His eyes were drawn to the dark pools of liquid, mesmerized by it. felt the gnawing in his stomach grow even more painful, like there was a ravenous animal in his insides, clawing its way out. The smell rose like a cloud, sickly sweet and coppery. As the sounds around him grew muffled, the raised voices fading to a hum, he could feel the space behind his eyes growing hotter. The dripping, pooling, black blood filled his whole vision, calling to him with its intoxicating scent. The hunger filled him until there was nothing else left.

He pounced.

The jäger didn’t have time to scream before Falk’s jaws closed on his throat, clamping down and ripping open his jugular with needle-sharp teeth. His eyes opened wide in terror, unable to call for help, unable to tear the thing away that was ending his life. His panicked thrashing grew weaker and weaker as the vampire fed.

Falk could feel each heartbeat as he drank deep. It wasn’t just the blood, it was the man’s life, his thoughts, his feelings – every memory, every high and low, every experience flowing into him like wine. The rush was unlike anything else. The rest of the world was gone, there was only him and the blood. He closed his eyes and tasted it, felt it, revelled in the ecstatic joy of it…

And suddenly, it ended. The world swam back in to focus, like rising from the depth of a dark pool towards the surface. He became dimly aware of someone shouting at him, shaking him. He came back to himself, Charles’s hands on his shoulders, wrenching him away from the dead man and throwing him to the ground.

“What the fuck, Falk?!”

Falk stared up at Charles, standing over him and screaming. Then he looked to the side at the jäger, eyes widening in disbelief. The corpse was unnaturally pale, the throat a torn mess, reminding him of Attila in the church.

“No… Domine Iesu Christe, Filius Dei, miserere me peccatorem…”

Matthew knelt at Georg’s side, fumbling at the jäger’s throat. His hands came back crimson.

“Why did you- shit, he’s dead…”

Falk clapped his hands over his mouth. “I didn’t… I didn’t want…” He could feel the taste of iron on his tongue, and fought against the rising wave of nausea. The crushing weight of what he had done hit him all at once, and it was unbearable, unthinkable.

“It’s your fault!” he spit at Charles. “Did you have to- why did you hurt him? If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have- I wouldn’t-“

Charles fell on him, snarling, claws out, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him close. “You wouldn’t? You think you’re better than me? You think you’re some kind of goddamn saint, Schlegel? I’m not the one who _drank_ his fucking _blood!_ ”

Falk gripped his arms and tried to wrench free. “ _You_ bit him! You ripped his goddamn arm open, Charles, why did you-“

Matthew left the corpse and ran up. “Charlie, leave off! Calm down, Falk, stop shouting, they’ll hear us if they haven’t already!” Roel helped him separate the two, pulling on Falk’s suddenly much stronger frame. He stopped; ears pricked up.

“Too late, there’s more people coming! We need to leave. Lonely, come on.”

The she-wolf raised her head from the jäger’s body, muzzle dripping with gore. “Mhhmf?”

Roel grimaced and hauled her away by the scruff of her neck. “ _Now_ , Lonely!”

The group ran as fast as they could with Attila and Lonely setting the pace. The sounds of pursuit soon fell behind them, but they ran on until they were back at the den. Roel and Matthew paced around anxiously, eyes and ears straining to catch any sound of patrols, but when more than ten long minutes had passed without anything more than the sound of a screaming fox, the group collapsed in exhausted relief.

Charles stomped up to Falk and pushed him backwards until his back was against a tree, holding him there by the front of his scruffy coat. Falk snarled at him, baring his red-tinted fangs.

“Care to explain yourself, Schlegel? Care to tell us why you thought it was a good idea to kill a friend of mine?”

“I was hungry, _Greywolf!_ ” Falk spat back. “What’s your excuse? You attacked him first!”

Charles picked him up and slammed him against the tree. “He was going to call for assistance! Did you want the legion to find us? What the hell could I do?”

“Not that! You could have held him down, knocked him out, not rip his arm open!” Falk’s voice wavered, and he looked away. “You shouldn’t have… I told you I was hungry! I couldn’t help it, I- I- didn’t want…”

“Yes, you did,” Charles replied, voice full of malice. “You bloody well wanted to. And that’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it? ‘I wanted something.’ You want something, you get it.” Charles released him with a disgusted snort. “Spoiled fucking brat.” He turned his back and started to walk off into the forest. Falk growled and braced himself against the tree, poised to spring.

“Falk!” Attila barked. ”Leave it.”

Immediately, the fight went out of the cantor, and he slumped down among the roots. Attila sat down beside him, talking fast and quiet. Roel started to follow Charles, but Matthew grabbed his shoulder.

“Let him be. He’ll be back when he’s cooled off.”

But it took until after dawn until Charles returned to the den, the smell of fresh blood in his clothes. Exhausted, he quickly fell into a deep sleep. 


	3. Apologies and hesitation

The morning came, and the legion prepared to march with all the things that entailed – shouting, putting out campfires, taking down tents and more shouting. The dead jäger had been found and added to the growing roster of uncanny deaths; the general haste and the deep anxiousness of the soldiers sent to investigate the area made it a short affair. The few stray patrols didn’t bother the group, who rested in their nest under the roots, content in knowing that they would catch up to the soldiers again after they had slept. The burrow was more crowded and decidedly less fragrant now that Lonely was added to the mix, but the wolves were fast asleep nonetheless, including Charles. The vampires remained awake, silently staring into the muggy darkness.

Attila gently put his hand on Falk’s knee. “How’re you feeling?”

Falk put his hand on top of Attila’s and sighed. “Physically? I feel… sharp. Every sense… everything is in perfect focus. You remember how strong we were, just after we woke up? I could bend metal like it was clay. It’s like that again, only more.” He gently stroked Roel’s fur with his free hand, making the large werewolf grunt and turn over in his sleep. “I can hear their heartbeats. I can hear the earthworms moving in the ground.” He closed his eyes. “There’s a deer, walking outside. I can feel how nervous it is, when it smells us. I fully understand how that great old one could kill us that easily, if it had even a fraction of this power.”

“Heh. That sounds… good. Certainly better that this.” Attila gestured to himself. “I don’t… I don’t feel like I’ve gained anything, no power, no strength. I’m just… dead, but still moving. Useless.”

Falk grimaced. “No, you’re not-“

Attila put a hand up to stop him. “No, it’s true. The others… the Greywolves, they were soldiers. They’ve killed before. And to Roel it’s second nature. I almost envy the way he goes through life without regard for consequences.” He shook his head. “I’m not a good man, but I’ve never killed someone. I don’t… I don’t know if I can do it, Falk.”

Falk grasped Attila’s hand tighter. “Attila, I didn’t want this either. I didn’t want to. But the blood… it called to me. I couldn’t stop myself.” He looked down. “It was so easy, to lose control. The easy way. Like I’ve always done. Charles is right, I’m no goddamn saint. What I’ve done… it’s monstrous.” His voice was full of self-disgust.

Attila put his hand around Falk’s neck and pulled him into an embrace. “I don’t think worse of you for it. Whatever you do... I don’t think I’ll ever think worse of you.”

“Don’t say that like it’s a good thing,” Falk replied with a sob.

“I’m not.” Attila sighed. “Sometimes I think that this happened to me because I always loved you more than God himself. Among all my sins, that was the one that tipped the scales.”

They sat like that, embracing in the dark and silence, until there was a snort from the wolf-pile. Both vampires turned to see Roel watching them quietly, his yellow eyes awake and intent. Attila released Falk and patted Roel apologetically.

“Sorry for waking you.”

Roel yawned. “Eh, I sleep light. Hey… Sorry for listening in. But. Listen.“ He stopped to gather his thoughts. “You’re thinking too deep about all this. This shit, all this bad shit, it happened because we were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Through all this, you’ve been trying to keep to who you were before.” He looked at the sleeping werewolves. “This how it is now. Considering how life was for us before… windows and doors, I guess. Shit happens. You’re not monsters. You’re you, still, just… different.” He reached for Falk’s hand and gave it a quick lick.

Attila rubbed his eyes. “I’m… finding it hard to have that viewpoint. But I agree that things weren’t all roses before.” He gave Roel another pat. “Try and rest. We’ll talk more in the evening.”

The werewolf gave him a doubtful look but didn’t press. Eventually, he dozed off again. Falk nestled into Attila’s arms, and the two men settled into silence once more until the night came.

* * *

As darkness fell, the den stirred. No-one spoke until they were all outside again, stretching and yawning. Falk wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes, and Charles’s usual comforting morning grumbling was absent.

Matthew looked around at the others. “So. What’s the plan?” He tried to sound resolute and chipper in the face of the frosty atmosphere.

Attila made a gesture towards the general direction of the army encampment. “So we know that they’re following and feeding on the legion. We can safely assume that they’ll keep doing that; why shouldn’t they? They have a steady source of food unlike anything they’ve ever seen.” 

“And we know where they’re going,” Roel added.

Attila nodded. “The Black Sea theatre. They’ll meet the other armies there. And that’s bad news.”

Matthew frowned. “More than it already is?”

“Think about it,” Attila said. “I was the only clergyman in our legion. What’ll happen when they meet up with other parts of our army? Or with the Russians? If it’s like Lonely says, that turning us makes it more powerful… there are many more of God’s men out there in this war. It’s going to keep on doing this. With all that carnage to feed on, it’s no telling how strong it’ll become.”

“Screw that,” Roel said. “We have to stop it!”

Matthew rubbed his chin, pulling on his goatee as he pondered. “We won’t be able to attack them if they decide to hide right in the middle of a war. If we’re going to take them down, we need to do it before the armies regroup. It’ll be our last chance. If we let them go…”

Attila nodded. “I like the Russians just as little as any of you, but this is a fate I’d wish on no-one.”

Roel looked at each of them in turn and asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. “Can we take them?”

Charles sighed. “We can take the werewolves, I think,” he said, eyes on the ground. “If we train a bit first. But the old one…” He shook his head. “No. Not us. That has to be you two, I think.” He glanced at Falk.

No-one spoke for a long while until Falk raised his head from the ground where he had been laying.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, Charles. For last night. It wasn’t your fault. It was- I lost control. I was so hungry… I shouldn’t have said what I said. It wasn’t your fault.”

Charles sighed. “Apology accepted. And… for what it’s worth… I’m sorry that I called you that. Spoiled, I mean. It was- it was cruel of me.” He sat down, eyes still on the ground. “But it- it _was_ my fault, wasn’t it? I lost it too. I should have… I should have just run.” He looked up and stared out into the darkness. “He was a friend, Matt. You remember? He’d steal tobacco from the top brass and share it by the fire.”

Matthew sat down beside him. “I remember. He… he told really good stories.”

Falk curled up, buried his face in his arms and started sobbing.

Charles kept staring, unblinking, into the night. “We both killed him, Falk. If you hadn’t… I was so close. And you were right. If I hadn’t wounded him, you probably wouldn’t have jumped him.”

Roel thumped his fist into the tree beside him. “Stop it! Both of you. What’s the point? Fucking- just accept it, all right? We’re here now! We can’t go back. Let’s just concentrate on what’s in front of us, okay?”

Everybody fell silent again, except for the sound of Falk crying. Lonely was watching them with keen eyes. She padded up to Attila and laid down at his side, mangy head in his lap.

“Is sad?”

Attila barked out a bitter laugh. “How long since you were human, Lonely?”

“Was human?” she replied, head cocked to one side like a confused puppy.

“Never mind.” He scratched her behind the ears until she got bored and got up to look for something to eat.

Matthew had been eyeing Attila, and got up to crouch beside the priest instead.

“Hey. About what we talked about… I think Charlie’s right. We can’t take them, not even Roel, and he’s the strongest of us. It has to be you two. And… you’re starved.” He put a hand on Attila’s shoulder and squeezed. “You need to eat as well, Attila. I know that Falk’s first time wasn’t… wasn’t ideal, but-“ 

“Not like that,” Attila interrupted with a grimace. “Yes, I know. I’ll have to do it, but… there must be some other way.” He turned to the she-wolf. “Lonely! Can strigoi survive without eating humans?”

Lonely was sneaking around the bushes, digging after something. She looked up, stuffed something wriggling into her mouth and shrugged.

“Can eat animal. No strong, but live. Want strong, eat human, like little one,” she added.

Falk gave another sob.

Attila let his head fall back against the tree. “Yes, yes. I get it.” He was silent for a while, lost in thought, then jerked his head back up and looked sharply at Lonely. “Can we… eat other strigoi?”

She stopped in her tracks and stared at him, her insane eyes wide in a mix of fear, respect and disgust. “ _Vaulderie?_ Yes. Can do – is much, much power then. More power be, more power flow.” She shook her head. “But is hate, hate from all dark, is enemy always then. _Este cea mai rea trădare_.”

Attila bared his fangs. “I don’t care. I’m going to eat that monster.”

She scoffed. “Not you. Too weak. No eat human before hunt _cel mare rău_ , you fucked.”

“We’ll see,” Attila replied, a dark look in his red eyes.

Roel, who had been listening in, straightened up and nodded. “All right then. For now, we get you an animal. Right?” He turned to Matthew. “Hey, help me hunt, okay? We need a live one for him to feed on.”

Matthew shrugged. “Sure. But I doubt we can get it back here in one piece.”

Roel rubbed his neck. “Hmm. You have a point. Could you keep up if we hunt one down?” he asked Attila.

“The way you two run? I doubt it.”

Falk stood up and wiped the remnants of bloody tears from his eyes. He took a deep breath, and the shadows thickened, boiling and pooling around his feet.

“I’ll come with you. I’ll carry him.”

Attila shook his head and smiled. “My lad, I’m much too big for you to carry-“

Falk crouched down and put a finger on the older man’s lips, silencing him. “Attila. Are you _arguing_ with me?”

Attila burst into laughter at his own words, echoed back at him. “No, I guess.”

“Then let me do this. Get something good out of this, at least.”

They stood up, and without any effort, Falk hoisted Attila on his back. The four of them ran off into the forest, leaving Charles to his own thoughts and Lonely to dig for beetles. The werewolves quickly picked up a scent. It was a deer, a hart – a youngling roaming the woods to find a territory to settle in. They stalked it patiently, running and exhausting it in bursts until it stood, sides heaving in a small clearing. They encircled it, triangulating it until it was unable to keep them both in sight, then pounced.

Falk let Attila climb down and stood to the side. The hart panted, all energy spent, trembling with exhaustion and fear. Roel kept his teeth buried in its neck, weighing it down; the bulk of the massive werewolf kept it from moving. Its eyes rolled in their sockets, looking for a way out that would never come.

“Dig in, I guess,” Matthew said as he grabbed its legs to keep it from kicking.

Attila sighed and kneeled at the animal’s side. It squirmed, trying to move away from the thing that smelled of death and predator – until it relaxed suddenly, like it was accepting its fate. Attila stroked its trembling neck, feeling the beating pulse under the coarse fur. Then he bent down and bit into it, piercing its jugular with one rapid movement. The blood flowed, and with it –

_jump run eat light run doe fight run dark run eat light_

– he surfaced, shaking his head to disperse the utterly alien feeling of infinite _now_ , of a life so simple that it was drowning him in its primary colours. The hart lay still, its tongue lolling and glassy eyes rolled back. Roel stepped off and stretched, turning more human with a series of cracks and pops.

Falk stared at Attila. “Feeling better?”

Attila wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his cassock. “Yes. It was… weird. But it’s like she said. It’ll do for now.” He shuddered. “But it’s like drinking water when you’re craving wine.”

Falk hugged himself and looked away.

Attila carried the carcass back to the den over one shoulder. Lonely, who had been waiting patiently, got up as soon as they came close, wagging her tail. When Attila dumped the hart on the ground in front of her, the she-wolf eyed it hungrily, but glanced from Attila to Roel, then back to the kill.

Roel laughed. “Come on Lonely, get in there.”

He didn’t have to say it more than once. The sounds of meat ripping and bone cracking filled the night. Whatever other qualities Lonely had, table manners weren’t one of them. The brothers and Roel joined in as well after she’d had her fill. With everybody sated, the group took a small rest to settle both their food and their minds. After an hour, Attila stood up and looked at the others.

“We’re in agreement about what to do?” The rest nodded. “The course is clear, then. Let’s go.”

Thy set off though the forest.


	4. Flesh and blood

The legion was moving towards the Black Sea, slowly but steadily; the little pack followed its trail, all the way keeping well out of sight to avoid the sentries. The attacks from the other undead and the threat of Russian raids kept the soldiers on edge, and there were more watches and more patrols than usual. The werewolves hunted in the night-time, making sure that Falk and Attila got live kill to feed on. The animals were enough to keep the vampires from starving – that sharp edge soon faded for Falk, but they remained stronger and faster than humans. With the guidance of Lonely, the werewolves learned how to use the point of transformation to their advantage; running as wolves, then using arms, hands and claws to capture and hold. Despite the doubtful state of her mind, she was an accomplished killer.

About a week later, they passed through a small village, houses unlit and windows shuttered. The central square was empty except for a well, deep and dark. Attila felt a pang of nostalgia as he saw the wreaths of garlic and crosses over each door. It took them less than five minutes to pass through, following the trail of the legion and its predators. Back in the forest, they glided through the night, disturbing nothing more than blades of grass, until they reached a cliff that fell abruptly down into the darkness. Before them lay the calm expanse of the Black Sea. The water was inky in the early night, earning its name; waves lapped at the high cliffs and rolled lazily along the long, low hills that gave way to gravelly beaches. A sullen half-moon hung low over the horizon, barely illuminating the thousands upon thousands of tents, wagons, battlements and supply piles spread out along the shoreline. Fires and lanterns twinkled and danced, tiny pinpoints in the night, mirroring the dim stars above.

Matthew sat back on his haunches. “Well, this is it. It has to be here, otherwise we’ve lost our chance. Tomorrow, they’ll deploy over the water and engage the Russians.” He glanced at the priest. “What do you say?”

“We’re still not strong enough,” Attila replied in a frustrated tone and ran his hands through his hair.

Lonely shrugged. “I said this. You want hunt strigoi, must eat human. Else, goodbye.” She stretched and shook herself.

“Fine, yes.” Attila pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve made your point, thank you.”

Falk fumbled after Attila’s hand in the dark and squeezed it. “I know how you feel,” he said in a whisper. “I feel the same. But if we don’t do this, many more will die. I’ll… I’ll help you. We’ll make our way down, and… see if we can find a sentry, maybe.”

Attila sighed and nodded. They doubled back towards the little village, skirting it to turn towards the water. As they tried to avoid a steep ravine with a small creek at the bottom, Roel’s ears pricked up, and he stopped the other with a gesture. A delicate, almost crystalline sound rang out.

“Did you hear that?”

Everybody hunkered down. The brittle sound rang out again.

Charles frowned. “It sounds like... bells?”

Roel gestured to the other to stay. “Let me check, okay?”

He turned wolf and loped off. A little ways away, there was a clearing. A narrow chapel and a cottage stood in the middle, surrounded by a tiny orchard of apple and plum trees and a garden with a few sheds and animal pens. Roel found the thing that made the sound – a small windchime made from hollow bones and bronze bells hung under the eaves, and moved ever so slightly in the soft night wind. He made a few passes around the buildings. There was a light around the chapel’s door, and a wicker chair on the porch had a glass of what smelled like wine beside it. The whole place felt lived in and… loved, in a deep, careful way. He padded back to the group. 

“There’s a chapel.”

Matthew looked surprised. “What, in the middle of the forest? Is it abandoned?”

“No, there’s a house and a garden there, and a... there’s a goat. And a pig,” he added, wrinkling his nose. “Lots of signs of someone living there. I could smell them. They’re old, and alone, I think?”

Attila gripped his shoulder. “Let’s go have a look.”

Roel looked doubtful. “Are you sure? I mean, we could take them if they decide to fight, but do you really want to do that?”

Attila gripped his crucifix and sighed. “I could use some courage right now. I’d like to visit that chapel. I’m sure we can avoid anyone who lives there.”

The others shared a couple of looks, but in the end, Matthew shrugged. “If that’s what you need, man.”

They moved as a group towards the little abode. As they entered the clearing, the others hung back, letting Attila and Falk approach the chapel alone. They moved silently, avoiding the cottage. But to their dismay the doors were locked with a heavy cast-iron lock. Frustrated, Attila gave the door a sharp tug, making the hinges rattle.

“Who’s there? Show yourself, don’t lurk in the dark!”

Attila jerked his hand back and stepped away from the door. An old man dressed in the blacks of an orthodox monk stood in the open doorway of the cottage, a lit lantern in his hand. When the light fell on the pair, his expression turned from suspicion to surprise.

“By the Father, you’re a Roman priest! But are you wounded, brother? I see blood on your clothes. Why are you here in the middle of the night?”

Attila looked around. “We only wanted… are you alone here?”

The monk smiled through his long, white beard. “There’s only me, brother. I’m _poustinik_ to the village nearby, it’s in my nature to keep to myself unless needed. Are you in need of help?”

The rest of the group advanced slowly as they were talking, alarmed by the old man’s sudden appearance. As he in turn saw them approach, he stepped further out on the porch, raising his lantern high to see them all. Roel tried to keep Lonely from advancing, hiding her behind his legs, but she slunk out from his grasp to go sniff at the pig-pen.

“Goddamnit, Lonely…!”

The monk’s eyes widened as he saw the she-wolf, her unholy mix of human and lupine traits clearly visible in the lantern-light.

“You… you’re not human,” he said, staring at Lonely. To his credit, he didn’t back away. “How is it that you can walk on holy ground?”

Attila raised his hands. “It’s… it’s complicated. But we mean you no harm. There are others that we hunt. We merely saw your chapel and…” He gestured to his own crucifix. “I felt a need to pray.”

The monk looked at him, then back to the others while stroking his beard, clearly trying to reach a decision. Finally, he nodded.

“Then my chapel is open to you, brother. And if you truly are a man of faith, you and your friends can rest here a while. This place welcomes all people at all time.” He came down from the porch, lantern in one hand and a large iron key ring in the other. The group split to let him through.

The chapel was small, without pews, but the floor was clean and well swept, the raw stone walls lined with beautiful icons. Candles burned in small holders, illuminating the space, creating shadows and glittering in the well-polished brass and bronze. The group filtered in, excepting Lonely, who whined and kept outside. The monk placed the lantern on a hook by the door and turned to look at them in the candlelight. His grey, filmy eyes were open in amazement as he gently smoothed the torn gilt on Roel’s uniform and put a wizened hand under Falk’s chin, tilting it this way and that to see better.

“You poor souls. What is this burden the Father has put on your shoulders?” He shook his head. “You said you were hunters. It seems to me that you’re not hunters of game, but of worse things, yes? I think I’ve met the things you seek.”

Charles stepped forward. “They’ve been here?”

“Yes. They came here, to speak to me, or to fight, perhaps. But they couldn’t put their feet on this most holy ground. I went in here, and I prayed and waited until they left.” He chuckled. “I’ve a relic here, you see, one of great power. Anything truly evil could never approach it.” He gave Roel one last pat and went over to a small alcove that contained an ornate chest. “Please help me, my son. My hands aren’t what they used to be.”

Roel picked the chest up and put it on the small altar. The monk watched intently as he handled the reliquary, then opened it with a small brass key from his ring. A bone lay on a moth-eaten pillow, small and yellowed.

“A bone from the finger of Christ,“ the monk said, touching the relic reverentially. “It’s been kept in our village for many generations now. Our pride and joy. It’s saved us from many evil things, methinks.” He looked around at the group, and when he saw no reaction other than curiosity and awe, he nodded to himself. “Will you pray with me, brother?”

Attila got on his knees in front of the altar and clasped his hands together.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…”

The monk stood behind him, hands on his shoulders and recited the prayer along with him. The others bowed their heads in reverence. When the prayer was done, Attila sat a while in silence, then got up and shook the old man’s hand.

“Thank you for allowing me this.”

“It’s my duty and pleasure, brother. I’m only glad that it gave you some solace in your dark hour.”

They left the chapel, the monk locking the door again after them. As he turned the key, he gasped suddenly and grabbed his chest. Matthew quickly bent forward and steadied him.

“Are you alright, father?”

The monk breathed heavily. “No, my son, I’m not. I’m dying. I’ve been for some time now. Truth be told, I’m getting rather used to it,” he said with a wheezing chuckle. “Could you help me to my chair?”

Matthew helped the old man to sit in the wicker chair on the porch. His breathing was shallow and laborious, his calm, kind face pale and drawn with pain. Lonely sat down beside him and pressed onto his knee, like a dog that wants to comfort its sick companion. The monk chuckled again and ruffled her hair.

“Don’t fret, little daughter. I simply need to rest.” Lonely rubbed her head on his knee like a cat, then transformed into wolf form and curled up at the old man’s feet. The monk gasped a little at her change, then bent down to scratch behind her good ear.

“Heh. God loves even the weak of mind.” He gestured to the men. “Come, sit with me while I rest, and tell me. What happened to you, to leave you like this?”

The others sat down on the porch, taking advantage of the brief but welcome respite. Attila fiddled with his rosary, then looked up at the others. Charles nodded at him.

“We came here with the British army, with the German legion,” the priest recounted. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the war, even here.”

The monk nodded. “A terrible thing.”

“There was an attack by Russian forces a few weeks ago, back in Wallachia. Roel here was sick – we feared for his life, so we left to take him out of harm’s way. We tried to hide in the woods. There was a church… but unlike yours, it offered us no protection. The demons found us there, and...” Attila stopped. “They took great joy in turning us.”

Falk sighed. “Each of us has… we’ve all committed great sins. This is our punishment. We’re cursed.”

The old man shook his head and patted Falk on the knee. “No, my son. Don’t see it like that. What was done you was a great evil, but not singularly that.” He looked at the group. “There is something familiar in your situation… The world isn’t as clearly divided into good and evil as most would have us think. Sometimes, there is a need for something to walk the spaces between.”

Charles leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

“The Father has chosen others, in the past. It’s a burden, to be sure, but a blessing as well. You couldn’t come here otherwise, not to this place. You’ve become children of light and darkness both, sons of God and sorrow, caught between two worlds.”

Matthew frowned. “There were others like us?”

The monk nodded. “It’s not unheard of. Most tellings speak of kings and clans from Ireland and the British Isles.” He stopped and looked out into the night as if reading from a remembered text. “And there was Thiess of Kaltenbrun, him they called the Hound of God, too. And the _benandanti_ of northern Italy, the _lupus Dei_ … The Father chooses the tools that are most suited to the work at hand. But tools must pass through fire before the forging is done.” He smiled sadly at the group. “And now you’re hunting the ones that did this to you?”

“Yes. The one that turned us.” Attila put his hand on Falk’s shoulder. “And its horde, that turned them. We need to face them before they have the whole war to feed on.”

The old man nodded. “It’s a good thing in the Father’s eyes to eradicate such an evil as that. It may be that that is the task the Almighty had in mind.”

“Yes… but we’re too weak to take them on,” Falk said. “We’ve been feeding on animals, but… It’s not enough. The great one is too powerful.”

“And how will you become more powerful?”

“I need to… we need to feed on a human,” Attila answered. “And… I can’t do it. That’s why we came to your chapel. I… I needed guidance, strength. But to ask for strength to do… that…”

“More credit to you then, brother. But I see the predicament. One great evil to prevent an even greater one, yes?” He leaned over and gave Attila a weak pat on the shoulder. “So much shame. God has set your feet upon this path. It’s up to you to walk it, though.” He looked up at the stars. “We’re each of us given gifts. Sometimes these gifts are heavy to bear. Didn’t Christ himself say, ‘Let this cup pass from me’?”

They sat in silence for a while, the calm only broken by the hoot of a hunting owl and Lonely’s snores. Matthew frowned as he listened to the old man’s wheezing, uneven breaths. It was apparent that something was very wrong with him.

The old monk opened his eyes and sighed. “I’m dying, my sons. This old body can’t take much more.” He shook his head and laughed, then coughed, deep racking coughs that shook his frail form. “Heh. The heresy of it all. But the Father granted us the answer, through his son, Christ Jesus. Isn’t it so, brother? Every time we take the Eucharist, we take the body and blood of Christ.”

Attila looked sharply at him. “Yes, of course.”

The monk nodded. "I will give my body and blood to you, my sons, so that you can defeat the demon. All I ask is that you don’t make me one of you, but let me pass into the light of God undisturbed. I’m too old to exact the vengeance of the Father.”

Attila just stared at him in shock, shaking his head slowly.

Falk laid a gentle hand on the old man’s knee. “Are you sure?”

The old man smiled. “The eucharist is the Lord’s sacrifice unto humanity, and this is my sacrifice unto you. And I think that God the Father in his wisdom has sent you to me for my sake as well as for yours. They say that exsanguination is an easy death, as deaths go. Certainly it must be easier than drowning on dry land.”

Falk turned to Attila. “Would you accept this?”

Attila looked around at the group, clutching his crucifix. “I… I don’t-“

Charles laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s freely offered, in good faith. I think… I think that it’ll rarely be this way, going forward.” Falk nodded, tears shining in his eyes. Roel threw his hands up in confusion.

Matthew bit his lip, then nodded as well. “It would be a kindness, wouldn’t it, father?”

The monk coughed again and smiled weakly. “Each of us walk our own path. If you can ease mine and I yours, all the better.”

“Then… let’s do it,” Attila said. “But it will have to be now, before they move again. And I… I don’t know the words you’d use, only my own.”

“I’ll say the words. Come, my sons. Repeat after me.”

They kneeled around him; hands clasped. Lonely remained at his feet, ears raised curiously. The old man chanted, and the undead repeated the unfamiliar words.

“I believe, O Lord, and I confess that Thou art truly the Christ, the Son of the Living God, who camest into the world to save sinners, of whom I am the first. I believe also that this is truly Thine own most pure Body, and that this is truly Thine own most precious Blood. Therefore I pray Thee: Have mercy upon me and forgive me my transgressions, committed in word and deed, whether consciously or unconsciously. And make me worthy to partake without condemnation of Thy most pure Mysteries, for the remission of sins and unto life everlasting. Of Thy Mystical Supper, O Son of God, accept me today as a communicant. For I will not speak of Thy Mystery to Thine enemies, neither like Judas will I give Thee a kiss; but like the thief will I confess Thee: "Remember me, O Lord, in Thy Kingdom." May the communion of Thy Holy Mysteries be neither to my judgment, nor to my condemnation, O Lord, but to the healing of soul and body.”

As the last words of the prayer rang out, the monk stretched out his hands towards the vampires. As they each gently grasped one of his thin arms, he smiled.

“The Lord bless you and keep you, and show you the way always.” He closed his eyes.

Attila and Falk both bit into the old man’s wrists, drinking deeply. The rush of his long life crashed over them like a wave.

For Falk, it was like day and night. With the sapper, he had pulled the life from the man, ripping it out like a storm pulling a tree from the earth, roots and all. This was life freely given, and it flowed like golden honey. For Attila, it was overwhelming. The animals hadn’t prepared him for this. Instead of the eternal now of the prey, it was a kaleidoscope of time and space. Memories swirled around him, through him. The deep strength and conviction of this hermit, his faith in both God and the goodness of man so strong, like iron – and with each slowing heartbeat, fluttering from age and sickness, that strength flowed from him to Attila. There was a split second where he saw the very last of the old man, the core of his being; and he saw how easy it would be to keep it there, tethered to the decrepit body, undead and undying, just like him. And without hesitation, he let it go, freed it from its mortal prison into whatever lay beyond. He slowly opened his eyes, and the world was changed.

He gently placed the pale hand into the old man’s lap and turned to the werewolves. “Your turn, lads.”

They looked at each other.

“Our turn?” Matthew replied, nervously.

“Body and blood, remember. We’ve had our part. The rest is yours.”

Matthew started to protest, but Roel nodded solemnly. He took the body and carried it out into the orchard, where he laid it down, hands over the chest. Charles joined him. Matthew paused for a second to cross himself before he joined them.

Roel whistled to the she-wolf. “Come on, Lonely.”

She padded over to them and sniffed at the dead man, then licked him across the face. Roel reached out to grasp the brothers’ shoulders, hugging them tight for a moment. Matthew was staring at the old man’s body.

“I… I wasn’t really prepared for-“

“It’s communion, Matt. You’ve done it a hundred times.”

“I really, really haven’t, Roel!”

Charles grasped Matthew’s neck and bumped his forehead against his brother’s. “Then this is our first time. Freely offered, remember. That counts for a lot.”

Roel and Charles transformed into wolves, and after a moment’s hesitation, Matthew did the same.

As the crunching of bones echoed through the night, Attila could feel the shadows swirling around him, like cold snakes slithering along his arms. He raised his hands and the shadows followed obediently. He flicked his fingers, and they flew out to circle him like tiny stars of pure darkness.

“How do you feel?” Falk looked at him, the red light bright like rubies in his eyes.

Attila smiled. “It feels… It feels like nothing else. Just as you described it.” He grabbed Falk and pulled him into a tight embrace, kissing him deeply, tasting the blood on his lips. It took a long time until they broke off.

Afterwards, they sat on the porch and watched the werewolves take their eucharist, devouring the offering until there was nothing left but a red stain in the grass. When everything was gone, they transformed back to human form.

Lonely licked her chops. “Good man. Good meat.”

Matthew shuddered and wiped his mouth. “Are we done?”

“Almost,” Attila said. “I just had a thought…” 

While the others watched, he went over to the little chapel. The door was bolted shut, but he took the heavy lock in one hand and broke it off like it was made of paper. The little chest was still on the altar, open to show the relic within. He took the finger bone from its pillow and moved the tiny clasp on his crucifix, opening it. He gently placed the bone inside and secured it, then took the large, beautifully carved wooden cross from the wall. To the side of the cottage was a small lean-to containing firewood, and a chopping block with an axe embedded in it. He took the axe and hacked at the cross until he had sharpened it to a point. He hefted it in one hand and grinned at the others.

“Now I’m ready.”

They started back towards the forest when Roel noticed that the she-wolf wasn’t following. He frowned and turned back. He found her in the orchard, sitting on the ground and sniffing her back leg curiously.

“Lonely? Something wrong?”

She grinned at him. “Is whole? Not bad, is heal!” She held out the leg for him to see – it was indeed whole again. She made an ecstatic jump and stared running in circles, chasing her own tail.

He couldn’t help but to start laughing as he watched her. “That’s… that’s a miracle,” he said in amazement.

Attila came up behind him and joined in his laughter. “The healing of soul and body, indeed.” He watched Lonely fall over from spinning too much. “Well… body, at least.” She got up again and ran over to the Greywolves and Falk to show them as well. Roel and Attila followed.

“What is she? The same as us?” Roel asked.

“No… I don’t think so,” Attila said. “But there’s a spark there, somehow. She’s helping us, and actions count for a lot. Who knows, with time…”

As they went deeper into the forest again, the werewolves stopped here and there to sniff for tracks. They found them further north, parallel to the unsubtle trail left by the legion. The group ran into the night, hot on the trail.


	5. Combat and closure

The trail went here and there, crossing itself and doubling back, almost as if their enemies had been confused by the large body of water close by. Eventually, Roel stopped the group about halfway between the little village and the encampment.

“It’s… there’s something here.” He sniffed in the air and gagged. “Oh, shit. That’s… ugh, that’s awful.”

Attila closed his eyes and stood silent with hands spread wide. The world poured into his mind. Every sense was heightened, every scent sharp, every sound clear as crystal. But there was a discord in the symphony of the world, a sour note that burrowed into his brain like a splinter.

“I can… I can feel them.” He grimaced. “Can you feel it, lad?”

Falk shuddered. “Yes. It’s like putting your hands into a rotting corpse, only with your mind.”

Charles felt his hackles rising. “It’s cold here. It shouldn’t be this cold.” He turned to Matthew. “Remember the church?” His brother nodded, his face pale and grim.

Attila looked at his friends. “Are we… is everyone ready?”

Charles put his hand around Matthew’s shoulders and nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” His brother drew his hands down his face and nodded as well, shakily. Roel cracked his knuckles and smiled. Attila sighed and took Falk’s hand before heading towards where the source of the discord waited.

They found them in a hollow in the ground, the remnants of a charcoal pit. As the group advanced slowly, cautiously, they looked up from their meal – some hapless sentry or other, unrecognisable by now when the whole pack had had their fill. Five werewolves, large as ponies, growled and got to their feet. Something thin, grey and slimy kept stuffing its gaping maw with entrails, paying them no mind now that it had unlimited access to the kill. Dark shapes slithered along the ground, merging and separating, their red eyes the only consistent thing about them. The stench was horrible, and Matthew gagged.

The alpha, the huge female, broke off from the group and advanced on them slowly. “Sons of Adam! Back for more running? Brought a friend, too.” She leered at Roel, who growled back at her. “More friends, more fun.” She stalked towards them, turning more werewolf with each step until she towered over them. Her pack followed, trying to encircle the three, but Matthew, Charles and Roel spread out to meet them instead. The drummer looked around for Lonely, but she was nowhere to be seen. He growled in disappointment and squared himself between his friends, baring his fangs at the enemy.

“No more running,” Charles snarled. He glanced at Attila and Falk, who nodded and backed away along the other edge of the pit.

“Fucking runt!” The alpha fell forwards and dug her claws into the earth, tensing to spring. “You _will_ run for me. This time I’ll hunt you until your heart bursts!”

She lunged at Charles, but never made contact. Instead, she was intercepted half-way by a grey, mangy shadow that came from the left, barrelling into her without grace but with the full force of the frustration born from years of serfdom and abuse.

_„Surpriză, curvă! Pariez că ai crezut că l-ai văzut pe ultimul dintre mine!”_

Lonely didn’t wait to threaten or posture, just went full force for the belly. The she-wolves whirled in the air and came to ground with a thud. Lonely ripped and tore, no technique, no style, just force and fury. Snarling, Roel joined her. The leader roared in anger and gripped him around the ankles, then threw him into a tree, splintering it. He whirled up again with a pained howl, broken ribs mending within seconds. She snarled and lunged for him again, Lonely on her back. Behind them, Charles and Matthew engaged the four others. The sound of howling and flying fur filled the air.

As the werewolves clashed in a whirlwind of claws and fangs, Falk and Attila had drawn the interest of the red-eyed shadows. The half-formed things flocked around them, whispering, long fingers touching almost reverentially – until they tried to touch Attila, and instead drew back, hissing as if hurt. He clasped the crucifix with the relic in it and looked around the trees.

“Old one! Come face me!”

The shadows gibbered and laughed, and drew back to the centre of the pit again as if in anticipation.

“You! Hollow priest. How are you not perished yet?”

It descended from the trees like a mist and made no sound as it settled on the ground, formless and fluid. Then, it billowed up into a nearly perfect humanoid form, standing impossibly tall, and stared at them imperiously. Attila could feel the cold embrace of the shadows as they swirled around him, flowing across the ground like quicksilver. He shuddered. Its mere presence was like icy tendrils gripping his heart, clutching it and sapping the resolve from his mind. He could feel Falk trembling beside him, and squeezed his hand once, quickly, before letting go. The ancient thing glided forward, trailing darkness like a tattered cloak behind it. It looked at him in disgust, but also with only the slightest hint of uneasiness and curiosity. Attila drew himself up and gripped the crucifix around his neck tightly.

“You miscalculated, old one,” he said, making his voice steady by sheer force of will. “We’re still here.”

The ancient thing looked at the warring werewolves, then at the trembling vampires before it and laughed, a horrible raspy sound. “Not for long. I gave you this life, and I can unmake you just as easily.” Its eyes narrowed. “Why did you come here? To seek revenge? To usurp me? Ha! You think yourself strong enough to blight this world with your existence? You think yourself matched with me, who has toppled empires? There is nothing to you, you are weak, useless, unworthy. This place, this food, it is claimed. Leave here, lest we decide to kill you yet again.”

“I’ve no desire to blight the world. Just you.” Attila raised the cross. “Fight me, you bastard!”

The old thing laughed again and threw out its arm, and the multiple smaller, red-eyed shadows leaped, screaming and buzzing like hornets. The grey, ghoulish figure finally looked up from its meal and lumbered forward, emaciated arms reaching mindlessly for a new source of food.

“I’ll not sully myself with the likes of you,” the strigoi rasped. “My worthy spawn will deal with you, wayward, worthless, wretched childe.”

“Like Hell they will!” Falk, who couldn’t stand the tension any longer, brandished his long claws and stepped in front of Attila. The ghoul reached for him, but caught nothing but mist. Then the mist solidified and Falk stood behind it, claws at its throat. With one slice, the ghoul’s head was rolling away, its body standing for a few seconds more from mere habit until it too fell to the ground. Falk snarled, showing needle-sharp teeth. The old one pointed at him, and the shadows buzzed and leapt.

Over at the other side of the pit, the Greywolf brothers found to their amazement that the lesser werewolves were no match for them. One fell when Matthew tore his throat out, leaving him twitching on the ground. One limped away with only three usable legs after Charles had crushed and torn the fourth to shreds. The remaining two circled, unsure and unwilling to engage them again. Matthew turned back to Roel and Lonely, leaving Charles to fend off the two stragglers.

The alpha was a far better fighter than the others. Each time Lonely jumped at her, she threw her off, and each time Roel tried to tackle her, she stood her ground. The grass was torn and turned all around them, and multiple trees bore the mark of a werewolf body. But still, Roel and Lonely attacked her again and again, the drummer’s eyes feral with bloodlust.

“Roel!” Matthew yelled. “Your left!” He attacked her side, allowing Roel to harry her from the other. Lonely nipped at her flanks. Still, she whirled, giving Matthew a punch to the sternum so hard it cracked, sending him flying backwards several meters. He flipped and rolled, then got up again, trying to suck air into his crushed, re-forming lungs.

“Charlie,” he wheezed. “We need you!”

Charles snapped at the others, then turned to help his brother. They advanced together, all four now encircling her, attacking from all sides. She turned and tried to get at them, but they traded blows, the other three getting hits in as she concentrated on one.

“Legs, Roel! Lonely, in the back,” Charles roared.

They fell on the alpha together, ducking and weaving to avoid her claws and teeth. Each took one haunch and held her down. She scrabbled and snarled, panicking now that she was surrounded, but there was no way out. Tensing, all four twisting and tearing at the same time, they ripped her apart, covering the forest floor with blood and guts. The three that were left of the werewolf pack shrank back as the Greywolves, Roel and Lonely turned towards them. They milled about, unsure and afraid, until they turned as one and ran off, yapping in fear, the third limping pathetically. Roel made to follow, but Matthew grabbed him from behind.

“Let them go,” he said tiredly. “We won.”

While the werewolves dispatched the horde, Falk fought the clinging shadows as Attila and the old one circled, looking for openings. The priest could see the slight tension, the stink of uncertainty that had not been there before – the creature was nervous now. It obviously hadn’t counted on this much resistance; perhaps it had never encountered it at all. He gripped the sharpened cross tighter.

“I know you. I know your kind. You and your ilk plagued my nightmares as a child.”

It swelled in response, moving its bone-white face close to his. “And we will plague them for many aeons to come, priest!”

“Not you. Not ever. I’m going to _eat_ you.” He lunged for the thing, swinging wildly and missing, but the mere fact that he attacked first had it moving away in alarm. He came at it again, brandishing the cross like a sword. In the church, its movements had been like lightning, too fast to see. But this time he could follow it step for step, whirling back and forth in a deadly dance. They were evenly matched, to Attila’s amazement and the creature’s disgust. It whirled up and reached for him, catching nothing but air.

“Stand still, apostate, so that I can finish what I started!”

Attila didn’t answer. Instead, he watched its movements in the pale moonlight, dodging it, studying the edges between it and reality, the way it slunk from shadow to shadow. It moved in the dark under the trees, behind, below. Never in the light. Never. He gripped the crucifix tightly and concentrated. It burst into flame, casting rays of brilliant light through the dark forest. The tatters of shadows around Falk shrieked and shrank away. He followed them, slashing each of them into grey mist.

Attila raised the cross high, advancing on the old thing. “In nomine Patris, Filii et Spiritus Sancti, exorcizamus te!”

The being recoiled from the light, hissing and shielding itself. Slivers of its shadowy carapace fell away, revealing dry skin stretched over bone.

“No! This power is not yours! You are weak, false, hollow… the Nazarene had abandoned you. How can you do this?”

“Maybe before,” Attila panted. “But the Father changed His mind when He saw you, monster.”

He braced himself against the edge of the pit, then tackled it to the ground. It gripped him tightly, trying to push him off, but then hissed and let go, staring at its hands. The skin was raw and peeling, steaming, a small cross-shaped burnt into its chest where it had been pressed against the crucifix around Attila’s neck. It looked up at the priest, shrinking in on itself from fear.

“You cannot do this to me! Not to me, not here! What are you?”

Attila breathed heavily and raised the cross over his head. “We are darkness and light, fury and forgiveness, Satan and the Son at once! I am dead and I will live forever.” He swung it down, point first. “And you… you will be gone and forgotten!”

The flaming cross pierced the ribcage, all the way through, pinning the strigoi to the ground. Black, fetid blood oozed out, covering the grass and wilting it where it landed. The old thing screeched and tried to pull the cross out, but it burnt its hands again, leaving little more than charred bones animated by its unholy will. It spit blood, the red draining from its eyes.

“Betrayer! All of the children of the dark will hunt you! A curse on you, half-breed! A curse on you for all time,” the monster hissed as its struggles grew weaker and weaker.

Attila pushed the cross deeper into the ground. “There are no curses left that can touch me, old one. The worst has already happened.”

It pawed feebly at him as Attila let go of the cross and bent down, taking the old thing’s head in his hands, turning it to expose the wrinkled neck. He pushed his fangs into the paper-thin skin. The taste was horrible, rotten and thick as syrup. But soon, the raw power rose and hit him like a tidal wave, sweeping him away.

It was so old, so very, very old. It had lived for millennia, killing, taking, devouring, ravaging whole families, whole villages. It had been a king and a sire to hundreds, outliving them all. Drinking its long life was pure euphoria. He swam in the vast sea of its experiences, saw history unfold through its eyes. He sucked the dregs of it from its mortal remains until it shrunk and shrivelled, turned into brittle parchment and dust. In the end, he expected there to be that sliver of self – but there was nothing, no soul, nothing to release. He fell back, ashes tumbling from his hands and coming to rest around the cross buried in the ground.

He sat there, motionless, while the night breeze scattered the remains.

Falk saw the last shadows flee. He turned and ran, falling to his knees at Attila’s side. From the other side of the pit, the werewolves approached them cautiously.

Falk touched the priest on the shoulder uncertainly. “Attila? Is it you?”

The priest opened his eyes and raised his hand to Falk’s face. “It’s still me. I was lost… just for a second. But it’s still me.”

“Thank God,” the cantor replied, throwing his arms around Attila.

The others sat down as well. Roel laid back and laughed, just laughed for a long time until he fell silent and just stared up at the stars.

“Fuck,” Matthew said, a dazed look in his eyes. “I thought... I wasn’t sure we could do it.”

“Me neither,” Charles replied. “But here we are.”

Lonely padded up, wiping blood from her mouth. “Is done! Good fight.”

Roel reached up and scratched her behind the remaining ear. “Thanks for being here. I honestly thought you’d scarpered. I’m happy you didn’t.”

“Not left! Only for make long run-up,” she said with a smug smile. “Worked, too.”

“What will you do now?”

She looked at her leg, healed now. “Can run, me. Find pack again. Unless, pack here?” She looked at them hopefully, tail wagging. Roel laughed and scratched her behind the ear again.

Matthew smiled. “No, little sister. I don’t think you’d be happy, staying with us. We have a lot to do – many places to visit, I think.”

“Is okay. Home is here. I go now.” Lonely gave Roel’s hand a quick lick and turned, loping off into the forest. Her form was lost in seconds between the heavy trunks.

“Well… that was abrupt.” Roel stared after her.

Attila laughed. “True to form, I guess.”

Charles turned to Matthew and raised an eyebrow. “We have a lot to do, Matt?”

His brother looked exited. ”You heard what he said. The monk. There are others like us! This, this cursed gift, it’s been given to others as well. What you felt at the church, Falk – that we can be the Lord’s army against the forces of the undead? There are other troops out there. We’re not alone.”

Attila stroked his beard. “The British Isles, Italy, Kaltenbrun – that’s in Livonia, isn’t it? That’s a lot of places to search. It’s going to take a while.”

“It’s not like we’re in a hurry.”

“No. No, we’re not.”

They sat there for a long time, looking up at the stars. After a while Matthew started whistling, a simple melody. The others joined in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. I've never written such a big fight scene before so this took some doing, but I'm happy with the result. Thanks for reading!


End file.
